


Speaking in Color (The Bright Red Crime Scene)

by orphan_account



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: AU, Aromantic, Art, Artist Dan, Color, Fluff, M/M, Oneshot, Phan Fluff, Synesthesia, Writer Phil, phan oneshot, qpr, queerplatonic, the best thing I'll ever write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 19:33:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8590903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Phil is a poet. He's never had an experience that he couldn't put in writing. But then he meets the boy who steals his heart and his words in the art studio, rendering him silent and in awe.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic! Please tell me what you think. I'll love you forever. I know I have an odd, waxing-poetic writing style, but this was fun to write and I'm excited to share it.
> 
>  **Note:** I wrote this with Phil as an aromantic synesthete, but I never explicitly stated it, so it's fine if you don't see him that way here.

Phil had never met a person before that was truly indescribable by words.

As a writer, he was always able to bend language to his will and invoke emotions that readers couldn't quite identify. The ability of him and his pen was limitless; and he wove stories that could only come from dreams. His worlds were alive and saturated.

Phil had always connected letters with colors. He rearranged words until he found the correct color scheme. A word artist of sorts, his friend PJ (a guitarist) told him. PJ said that each paragraph was like a chord, fitting perfectly, flowing seamlessly.

Phil could turn anything into poetry.

But then came the day when Phil's feet were swiped out from underneath him, for he had an encounter that rendered him wordless and reeling. The silence was a foreign tongue.

The boy was an artist, and he was strikingly astounding, and he was called Dan.

Phil had stopped by the art studio to visit his friend Gerard, who was working on their comic book series. He had been ambling around aimlessly when the collision happened. It was a robbery, Phil thought indignantly: Dan had stolen his heart (a cacophony of clichés, Phil knew) with his wordless face and silent hands. Blood splattered across Phil's shirt. Dan was holding the bucket–definitely the culprit. Their eyes met for an eternity. Phil absconded from the crime scene before the inevitable flow of apologies.

An exchange with Gerard had revealed Dan's name. A painter, they had recounted, of light and hands and beauty. What did it matter to Phil–to him, art wasn't as breathtaking as people made it out to be. The real fun was translating colors to words and recognizing the irony as he said "the picture spoke to me."

"Dan" was a bright red name, the same color as the evidence of the crime. It was a more uncommon color. Phil's alphabet was mostly occupied by shades of blue.

Phil went back to the studio the next day and spent an hour staring at Dan from across the room. He was determined to find words for the boy.

It took hours at home, too, just thinking. Phil carefully memorized Dan's face. He was beautiful and fleeting; the personification of a feeling. A sharp intake of breath and a swirl of chromatic sound, the wind in the words, the sweet taste of summer.

Phil could feel Dan's eyes on him in the studio. Dan recognized him, of course: the remains of the silent crime scene long ago. Dan was sending a message of sorts: i am the evidence of the crime: passable yet invaluable. Confusing, Phil thought, and corny even, but his infatuation deepened into obsession with the boy, and he mustered up the courage to find him.

Phil stood at yesterday's crime scene. He was seeking out the perpetrator. It was a dangerous business.

This time, instead of a robbery, there was a simple exchange. Names and phone numbers were etched onto each other's skin in sky blue. Phil soared.

They passed each other their stories, their thoughts and secrets, and when they left the studio in favor of the bench outside, moonlight was already brushing her delicate fingers across Dan and Phil's skin. It was under the blessing of the stars when they kissed, a crash of colors on Phil's lips.

And from that moment, it was decided: they were locked together, permanently bonded. The bond of attachment that grew was an unbreakable rope of flame.

Phil had never thought that he would be able to fall in love; it seemed like there was always the tedious dating stage and the boring labels and clichés: romance. But here he was.

Phil memorized Dan in words and colors, the language of his emotions. Personality was a foreign tongue for him.

Dan's face was monochrome: ebony glances and soft gray lips and ivory skin. But his touch was a rainbow, soft brushes of skin with tones spanning the spectrum. His fingerprints littered Phil's skin. With every touch he left a swell of color: a bruise of adoration.

He was all sharp edges. His jaw was a cleanly drawn line, his torso angled and acute. Phil's body was covered in lines from where Dan had pressed against it, leaving gashes, Phil bleeding out in front of him.

It was a transcendent love. Dan painted Phil with colors beyond the spectrum, with words and sounds and feelings. He was the artist, yet the art: (is there a difference?) He was an unidentifiable melody and an unwritten poem. He found Phil and shattered him with his melancholy beauty.

He was seen as a passing stranger, raindrops on a window, but Phil laughed as the eyes of the anonimities on the street passed over his face, for he knew; Dan was deep and complex beyond any of their limited understandings. Dan weaved his way elaborately into Phil's soul and captured him.

Dan would not conform to such simple words as "romantic" to describe his relationship with Phil, for the term was common and unambiguous. Phil had never felt the need to fit a definition to their interactions. It was surprising, really. Phil, the master of words, transforming anything into an arrangement of letters: of all people, he would be the one to find it necessary to label them. Dan was the one who saw the world abstractly and in strokes of paint rather than ink on a page. But there were no words to describe the way Phil felt as Dan kissed him–or the way he made him feel, both physically and emotionally, as he slipped inside of him and unraveled him.

It was a connection that was deep enough to tie the boys' souls together, it was immortal and transcending. Phil was deeply, madly in love with Dan: like the day and the night, always connected. Opposites but the same; a cycle, constantly in motion. Never-ending. Immortal.

To think that it all started with a robbery in the art studio, Phil thought. He recalled the red splatters, the same shade as Phil's cheeks and Dan's name. Memories, coated in semi-transparent gold leaf, rearranged themselves on the page as Phil directed. The ink had never been sufficient enough to describe them, but the red crime scene (red: the color that said "Dan") was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Should I write another chapter or nah?


End file.
